


but still, like dust, i rise

by WhimperSoldier



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: #caprimonth, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, like a lot of AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: Prompts written for Captive Prince Month 2k18.





	1. Identity

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with the (late!) first prompt for the 10th Anniversary CP month prompt: Identity! Shamefully, the first thing was Matt Damon so get my take on CP Bourne Identity so here.
> 
> title is from the fantastic work of Maya Angelou.

The French consulate in Athens was the only option he had. The money, wallet, and new name printed in precise French gained from the deposit box burned a hole in his pocket. He quickened his steps, listening to the light muttering of the two policemen behind him. Six blocks.

They were keeping their distance, for now, but Laurent knew it was only a matter of time. He had spent the first two months of his remembered life being continually unlucky. Their slurred Greek translated perfectly despite Laurent never learning it. As if summoned, options presented themselves. Four blocks.

He knew instinctively that he could run between the two alleyways, and could keep a constant speed for over two miles and slightly slower for more than four more. He could imagine spinning around, knew the exact way he could hit the first man to push the cartilage of his nose into his brain, pulling the baton from his belt and bring it down onto his partner’s head until it cracked. His caves flexed, as if they two were thinking through his options. The map he had spotted in passing, wet and plastered to the side of the bus terminal, floated to the forefront of his mind. Two blocks.

Laurent could pinpoint the moment they saw the French flag flying over the consulate and knew the moment his feet landed on that soil, they couldn’t touch him. Laurent took off.

The loose fabric of the sweater chafed against his skin but was bland enough that he could weave between people, losing them in the crowd crossing the road. Instead of running to the front door, he dipped into the alley close by, dropping behind an illegally parked car.

The sound of frantic Greek came from the mouth of the alley as the policemen argued with the guards standing watch, Laurent understanding both the French, Greek, and mixed English. He felt outside his body, couched as he was on the cement, unsure of himself and his capabilities while also being uncomfortably aware of how he simply knew he could take down both policemen, guards, and avoid detection if that is what it came down to. His heart didn’t even have the courtesy to beat irregularly due to fear, instead Laurent knew he was panting solely from running and adrenaline.

It was almost laughably easy after that, flashing his id and conversing with the guards. He knows not to glance around frantically, despite the tingling feeling of eyes watching him. They do side eye him as he walks in, as if without his charming smile, they noticed how strange he was dressed for the weather, the disarray of his hair, and the suspicious bag he was white-knuckling.

He stepped into the first line he could find, hoping to appear as if he belonged. Something set them off, maybe the screaming of the baby and the shushing of his mother in the line to his left, perhaps the argument happening between an annoyed Greek man and the equally annoyed consulate employee, or it might have simply been that the instincts that had so far never led Laurent wrong had not been enough.

Whatever the reason, the moment a hand landed on his shoulder, Laurent could feel his muscles contract, spinning around and twisting the offending wrist around. As if on autopilot, his leg came out, sweeping the guard's legs out from under him. Laurent wrapped the man’s arms around his neck and with a kick out, sent him sprawling out in front of him. A woman ran from the guard booth, raising a gun and sending Laurent’s mind sprinting six steps ahead.

On instinct, his bag gets launched, smacking her hand and sending the gun flying. His knee catches the soft skin of her stomach and the woman makes a retching noise, bending over and leaving her neck open for him to grab and twist.

She makes a choking noise, an Laurent has to pry his hands from her throat, watching with wide eyes as she collapsed. His internal panic would have to wait. He moves quickly, snatching up her walkie talky and his bad before sprinting to the closest stairwell.

He sprinted deeper down the halls, watching the lights go off and alarm blaze. The walkie started to chatter, men coordinating the building wide search.. He rips a exit plan map from the wall, following with his fingers the closest exit. He makes it to the stairwell and listens for the telltale clacks of booted feet marching upwards.

No going down then.

He goes up, cutting between levels and marking points where, from the small windows, he can see fire escapes. A floor from the top the guards started moving outwards, manning the bottom of the fire escapes and his main escape plan. He changed courses on a dime, moving into the offices, making his way to the middle and the break room that overlooks the ally, opposite the bigwig and the view of the city.

Now fear creeps up on him. He can hear the men sweeping down the floor, and moved quickly, quietly searching for what he needs.

Finally, he spots a cream cheese spreader dusty and in the back of a drawer. He quickly moved to the window, using it to slice the painted shut windows open. They make some noise when he opens them, but his memory was correct, there was a slight ledge under the window made up of fancy plaster, enough for Laurent to use the old brick to scale the wall, keeping an eye on his prize and final escape option: the car illegally parked with peeling red paint.

It was slow going, picking hand holds and keeping an eye out for a guard to peek their head out. None do, and Laurent makes the final few feet undisturbed. Still high on the adrenaline, he walks quietly to the car he’d seen, his fingers unfolding the paperclip he’d nabbed from the break room into something that could pop the poor lock on the ancient car.

But, instead of an empty alley like he had thought, the well built man from the consulate watched him with wide eyes, outreached hands frozen where he had been unlocking his doors to his rundown ride. Before Laurent could move, the man frantically yanked at his door handle, muttering in Greek as Laurent marched forward.

“Stay back!” He yelled, catching the attention of a few people at the mouth of the back alley. No one stopped but Laurent knew if this man started yelling some good Samaritan might. “I have pepper spray!”

“Put that away,” Laurent hissed, pushing the bottle away from his face and yanking a thick wad of cash from the deposit box from his pouch. “I will give you this money if I can have your car.”

“My car!” He looked torn between confusion and outrage, as if Laurent’s generous offer was beneath him. “Who are-”

The startled cut off of his words made Laurent glance behind him and catch the eye of a guard who’d heard their yelling, his eye already bruising from where Laurent’s fist had hit.

“I’ll double it!” Laurent yelled, yanking the keys from him and opening the door in a single smooth move. The man spit a curse before screaming when a bullet ricocheted off the wall nearest to his head. Laurent started the car, ignoring the quiet panicking of the man who had thrown himself into the passenger seat.

Despite Laurent being unable to remember learning to drive, the wheel felt natural in his grip, easy to navigate even if the twisting roads were not. He pressed his foot down on the gas and sped into the line of disgruntled guards dressed in light kevlar.

A swift turn, jump of guardrails, and screeching of his passenger later left them tucked into a line of other cars, huddled down into their seats as the police raced past none the wiser. The man was hyperventilating in the passenger seat, muttering in sporadic Greek, something about blondes.

“Are you alright?”

“You stole my car!” He mock whispered, as if his raised voice might bring the cops back around. Laurent just sighed and pulled out, pulling up a map on the man’s phone which had thankfully remained in the cup holder.

“Is it really stealing if the owner is also in the car?” Laurent asked. He memorized what he could before throwing the phone out the window despite the grunt of the man.

“That just makes it kidnapping!” He huffed. Laurent knew they would have to ditch the car somewhere, and felt a flash of guilt when he saw the apartment worth of stuff shoved into the trunk. Homeless maybe. It came like a flash, his brain connecting pieces and working with what information he was given. 

“Why didn’t you run?”

“What?” The man huffed, ignoring the question and doing a poor job and looking not guilty.

“You should have run, when the cops started shooting, but instead you looked to get away too.” He turned onto the highway. The man fidgeted more. “You were arguing with the worker back in the consulate, meaning you were denied something. You have no steady income seeing as it seems your last meals were all fast food and your key ring is almost bare. So maybe I’m not the only one running.”

“You think you know so much,” The man sneered but even that looked somehow soft on his face.

“Actually I don’t know anything,” Laurent laughed bitterly, felling the stoic courage drain out of him the farther they drove, as if the physical distance was slowly separating the two Laurents from inside him. “I can’t even remember my own name.”

The man looked torn, glancing out the window. Laurent thought that would be it, that they would spend the next few hours in silence until he could find a ship to take him across to Italy and eventually Rome, where those coordinates led.

“My brother killed my father and then attempted to kill me.”

“What?” Now it was Laurent’s turn to be silent. He looked over at the man and was met his the back of his head.

“I was hoping to get my feet under me but before I could do anything, he had my passport rejected and vanished off to France with my then fiance, it was why I was at the consulate. I wanted them to do something but without evidence and without a name...” He sighed. Laurent was quiet, a growing sense that he had jumped head first into something he was not yet familiar with despite his considerable skills. “Where are you heading?”

“Italy. Rome. I found a note from someone calling themselves family.” Laurent, even without his memories, felt wary of the words written in precise penmanship tucked between the bundle of money in the deposit box in his name. “Maybe they have some answers for me.”

“Damen.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, keeping his eyes forward to avoid the man who had finally turned to watch him.

“My name. It’s Damen,” He said. “Do you have a name or do I need to name you?”

They both cracked a smile, the fluttering feeling of warmth so forgotten that Laurent felt his chest compress uncomfortably in happy confusion.

“Laurent. At least from what I could find. I might not even be French for all I know,” Laurent said, direct to avoid the unsurety from flavoring his tone.

“Oh from your attitude, definitely French,” Damen laughed, digging around in Laurent’s bag. The man had to stop himself from reaching out and smacking it away, choosing instead to press his fingers into the wheel. Laurent had already combed over the contents for hours. Maybe a new set of eyes is what he needs. “So…”

“So?” Laurent asked, forward and no nonsense.

“Turnabout is fair play and all that so...want some help?”

It hung between them, an open invitation for Laurent to crush. But, he found himself holding onto the warm fluttering of his heart at the honest face of the man sitting to his side. He opened his mouth then closed it. It was a bad idea, bringing anyone into whatever it was he had gotten himself into, but it felt so nice to finally feel part of something, not someone watching from the outside looking in. His answer slipped out unbeknownst to him, soft.

“Sure.”

They both just nodded slightly at both the question and the answer, uncomfortably comfortable with each other, looking forward and watching the sun slowly sink under the horizon and the fluorescent light posts lining the road silently flicker to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and a comment and hit me up on tumbr @ whimper-soldier


	2. "Hello, lover."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The box peeled open with a satisfying sigh, the fabric lining snugly holding the custom lingerie in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I love this prompt.

Laurent soundlessly opened the back door with Damen’s spare key, quietly moving around the master bedroom with an ease that only came with extensive cohabitation. They had been dating for well over a year, one of the best of Laurent’s life if he were being honest, and thus when it came time to give Damen a birthday gift, only one thing came to mind.

He hefted the box out from under his arm, gently laying it on Damen’s white bed, smoothing out the creases in the red velvet bow holding the box together before moving to the master bath to take a quick shower. He’d taken advantage of his boyfriend’s love of family, convincing him to stay late at the flower shop and facetime with his mother on the bigger screens with better microphones. Despite never meeting the woman, or any of Damen’s family for that matter, Laurent was intimately familiar with how long those two could go on talking seeing as many a sexy night had been ruined by their bicker over flowers.

Laurent knew Damen missed them, that despite their relative wealth, none of his family wanted to travel to Marlas. Damen didn’t blame them, not with his mother’s cancer even seeing as of now it was in remission. Laurent had played with the idea of trying to fly all of his family out to have a party but that was quickly forgotten seeing as Damen had yet to tell them he was seeing anyone.

Laurent knew this was at his request, that this was not longer the three week fling he’d thought it was going to be, but some small part of him still saw how perfect Damen’s family looked in all their photos hanging around Damen’s house. With his past as it was, what parent would want Laurent as a son-in-law?

Toweling his hair dry, he moved to the vanity, pulling his things from their respective drawers. While he didn’t technically live here, it was leagues better than the rundown dorms and his shitty roommate who liked to party hard only to come home and vomit into Laurent’s shoes.

The cat eye looked sultry and his lips pouty. He’d had too look up a few tutorials online but finally got the look down a little before he’d expected Damen home. He glanced over to his phone, the app tracking Damen’s homeward commute.

Never let it be said Laurent left things to chance.

He moved quickly to the bed, quickly unbraiding his hair and letting the light waves fan around his face. He knew Damen loved his hair and he’d gone to great lengths, literally, to keep it shiny and healthy, often with the help of Damen’s fancy brand shampoo.

The box peeled open with a satisfying sigh, the fabric lining snugly holding the custom lingerie in place. Laurent had to go to fittings several times, something that had been hard to hide from Damen until Laurent remembered who he was dating and simply told him it was a birthday surprise. Damen took that as a valid reason and simply took to pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before he left.

Laurent normally dislike certain feminine parts of himself, a product of his upbringing no doubt, but since dating Damen, he’d come to appreciate his body in regards to the pleasure it could bring them both. It was a delightful learning curve he was now more than willing to share with his boyfriend on his big day.

And he can finally top Damen’s last anniversary gift which included chocolate covered strawberries, white sheets, and an impressive sized dildo.

The fabric was soft, sheer, and clung in all the right places. It was an ivory and blue that Laurent hadn’t though he would like, favoring Damen’s colors of red and gold, until he’d seen the sketches from the art student he’d dragged into helping him. It also highlighted the slight gold along his cheekbones and the dusting of pink across his lips.

From the bedroom he could hear the sputtering of Damen’s ancient truck pull into the driveway and the loud slam of the car door. Laurent pushed the now empty box off the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles in the sheets, yanking Damen’s threadbare robe over his outfit and letting the overly large shoulders hang seductively from one arm.

He heard something from behind the door, a shuffling he couldn’t place but was forgotten in face of the echoing scrape of the key in the lock. The telltale scrape of the door Laurent had continually “forgotten” to fix was his cue, throwing open the door to lean on the trim facing the front door, his eyes hidden under thick lashes.

“Hello, lover.”

Damen’s breathless choking would have been a positive sign if Laurent hadn’t looked up and seen the combined company of Damen’s whole family watching Laurent with something akin to horror as they stood in front of a banner that read “Happy Surprise Party, Damen!” in bubble letters.

“Oh my god.” said Laurent.

“Oh my god.” said Damen .

“Oh my god.” said Damen’s mother, crouched down behind their couch. _The couch they’d had sex on._

_Oh my god._

Laurent yanked the robe closed and slammed the door shut with a very unbecoming squeak he would later deny when faced with Damen’s red-faced dad and a very understanding mother who, when they were alone, quietly took his hands in hers and told him of how she’d accidently poisoned her in-laws the night Theomedes proposed.

“Maybe is runs in the family.” She said sagely, smiling softly with the same laugh as her son.

 _Well,_ Laurent thought, _maybe next year._


	3. Point of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This one.”
> 
> Eresa hadn’t realized she had spoken, but when he saw where she was pointing, his face softened and he looked at her with a childlike smile.
> 
> “Fan of romantics, Eresa?” Mr. Pleiades teased, walking slowly to the two statues that sat in the center of the room, bathed in the soft light of the afternoon.
> 
> “The Unifiers, King Laurent of Vere and King Damianos of Akelios."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV just reminded me of how history has to be seen through a lens. I really like this idea and might revisit it later... sorry for the late update, in a place with shoddy internet connection!

Eresa watched her teacher try to herd their class into the museum with about as much luck as trying to herd cats. The class overwhelmed the smiling greeter, grabbing the offered brochures in hopes of the information on their test next week being somewhere inside seeing as they were planning on spending the whole of the trip snapping pictures of Akelion stature’s dicks with various stupid captions. She sighed, moving to do the same when Mr. Pleiades walked up and waved excitedly to the remaining students gathered.

Eresa figured her instagram bing dickless was not the worst thing in the world and followed after the group comprised of teacher’s pets, goody two-shoes’, and other people who were too nervous to sneak off by themselves. At a sedated pace, they winded their way through the gallery, arranged by major generational differences and cultural shifts.

“And if you look here, this is the introduction of Vereitan arts into the traditional Akelion sculpture. Note the detailed base, the use of gold and jewels for decoration, the way the sculpture is curved, impossibly so, all trademarks of the Veretion introduction.” He was pointing to a sculpture, a standing man with an arm outreached. She moved forward, absently scanning the plaque. All it said was Soldier with Spear. They moved on. “Looking to the opposite wall, here is the first hints of the famed Akelion starkness into the common painting from Vere. See the way the woman’s dress is folded just so that you can see the shadows? While Vere, through trade, had access to cheaper dyes and pigments, Akelios at this time had developed methods and mathematics that gave rise to an art style that valued precision over indulgence. Through the combination of the two nations during the time of Unification, these ideas were being spread and developed until we come to this.”

They moved farther into the museum, the paintings of dark skinned women morphing into birds and pale ingenues fainting onto luxuriously painted couches fading to be replaced by towering sculptures.

White faces looked over her, not looming, just following their quiet march with hollow eyes. She looked back, blowing a bubble with her gum but having enough respect to pop it inside her mouth. She didn’t smack it between her jaws like Kelly did and she sure as hell wouldn’t leave it tucked under the shiny railing like some others might have.

In a room under a skylight sat the Room of Rulers. She’d done her midterm paper on them, had familiarize herself with many of the more famous members of their order, but instinctively moved to her favorite. Glancing around, it seemed other had done something similar.

While she stood in the center of the room, Razi from homeroom was reading the small plague at the feet of a large women, caved to be an imposing as she was sure the artists of the time felt their queen to be. 

“Pick one,” Mr. Pleiades said, waving his hand around the room. Razi pointed to her queen and the teacher smilled, directing the class to gather around. “That is, as for as we can tell, Queen Agar. She is mostly known for bringing Isthima into the kingdom of what would later become the combined kingdom we know today.”

“What about this one?”

“Ah! The records of King Iosias is, unfortunately, quite clear. He was known to be a bloodthirsty ruler, more inclined to lopping off heads than keeping a level one.

“This one.”

Eresa hadn’t realized she had spoken, but when he saw where she was pointing, his face softened and he looked at her with a childlike smile.

“Fan of romantics, Eresa?” Mr. Pleiades teased, walking slowly to the two statues that sat in the center of the room, bathed in the soft light of the afternoon. Where many of the other statues had been painted, Eresa had seen the flecks of paint that had stilled remained even after centuries, these had been left bare. Whether that was due to artistic license, personal preference, or simply because without paint, the two figures looked as godlike as they had come to be regarded.

“The Unifiers, King Laurent of Vere and King Damianos of Akelios. Theirs was a time of great change. Did you know, historians credit them with the preservation of thousands of texts of the time, many of which might have been lost if not for the help of King Laurent in particular. Centuries later when the Bloody Empress of Vask invaded Marlas along with parts of Patras and tried to burn the capital, it was his library that remained standing while its other counterparts fell.” He pointed to the smaller man, posed and elegant in marble. “Anthropologists have found pipes and a well a few feet from the outside leading some to think this was one of the first cases of a fire suppression system. Both so far ahead of their time… their story has translated well into the modern age, no doubt you have seen their tale somewhere in literature and pop culture. In fact, I believe a new movie is coming out soon, no?”

When the students nodded along with him he moved a few steps forward.

“The preservation done during their reign was so detailed that we still are able to read notes sent between the pair even this many centuries later. Quite romantic, I must add!” Mr. Pleiades laughed and even Eresa had to crack a smile. “King Laurent was thought to be particularly cold for many years during his reign, with translators decoding crude books and proto-newspapers that ran sensationalized articles about the child-rearing ability of the king after the adoption of their first child. Many scholars now look at this from a feminist outlook and many a paper has been written on the feminine role pushed upon King Laurent in the face of his more “masculine” husband. A riveting outlook, I assure you!”

“King Damianos was known mostly for his work with slaves, hence the breaking of the chain shown to his side and the cuffs on both their wrists. We don’t know much about the symbolism of the cuffs but we do have first hand records that both kings wore them until their deaths, King Laurent having his and his husband’s melted down after his death, later becoming a crown wore by the royal family for centuries. If you will follow me around, these are the famous scars.” The students awkwardly shuffled around the statues, taking in the subtle curls and artful bends in the forms of the the two kings. “While there was never any written proof of King Laurent being the direct cause of the scars, after the production of Shakespeare’s _Laurent and Damianos_ , the idea was widely accepted into pop culture where it remains to this day.”

“So they loved each other?” Someone asked.

“Of course-” She muttered, shutting her mouth when the class turned around to look at her. Mr. Pleiades nodded encouragingly. She pointed to another sculpture a few lines down, a man with a wild mane of hair and holding a saber. “Their son kept journals. It was his entries that actually have the kings their date of death.”

“Death?” A girl asked, as if she was confused about men born centuries in the past.

“King Damianos died exactly one year before King Laurent. It was their son King Leon who posited that his father held on long enough for him to feel comfortable in his role as ruler before passing quietly in his sleep. Every account for that year says the same thing.” She looked up at their faces again, amazed despite herself at the amount of detail down to the cut in Damianos’ cheek and the lines around each of their eyes. “There is a reason it was called “the Dark Year” and King Laurent refused to wear anything but black. He was mourning the love of his life.”

“Wonderful, Enesa, simply wonderful,” Mr. Pleiades smiled, his face crinkling up in happiness. “I too agree. Too often history dies with those that experience it being made but, if we are very lucky, something remains, something wonderful that we can learn from no matter how removed we are.”

He nodded again thoughtfully, waving the class forward and into the gallery of paintings but Enesa lingered, just a second more. She took in the gentle arch of Damianos’ back that had him subtly curve around his husband, the defensive grip Laurent had on his saber as if even encased in marble he might jump out in defence of his lover. Finally, she focused on the delicately carved hands linked between them, protected on all sides by sword and saber both, eternally interlaced.


	4. Forgivness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write about the whole scars and killing one's brother thing but I'm not a good enough writer to do that justice. Have this instead. Skipped a prompt, might go back to it if the drabble I have ever comes together!

“Laurent, baby, please!” Damen called, trying to keep his voice down so that he could avoid jumping in the bushes if Laurent’s dad stuck his head out the window like he had last night.

Damen tucked his letterman jacket closer around his shoulders to ward off the cold. He’d come over right after practice but the parents had already made it home and Auguste’s car was already parked in the street. Laurent’s family didn’t necessarily hate Damen, but they sure didn’t like him all that much either. Part of it was undoubtedly how much he had dated before their son but Damen thought there was also something weird between their families.

“Laurent!” Damen hissed just before the wrong room light flipped on, forcing him to jump into the bushes to press himself along the siding to avoid a sleep rumpled Auguste peeking his head out the window in confusion, scratching his stomach absentmindedly. He waited patiently for the click of the window lock before peeling away with a sigh.

Maybe another night would work better-

“What are you doing?”

Damen screamed, embarrassingly high-pitched, before snacking his hand over his mouth to cut off the sound. Laurent was standing on the porch, dressed in tight jeans and one of Damen’s cast off sweaters. His hair was in a stylish braid that Damen wanted to run his fingers through and his glasses, the chunky old version that Laurent hated but Damen loved, covered red rimmed eyes. He looked like an angel.

“You didn’t call.” Damen muttered, suddenly feeling clingy and weird standing in his boyfriend's yard yelling at his apparently empty room.

“Damen, first, you knew I was going to stay with Jord to work on my ACT prep, second, it’s been like two days,” Laurent said, balancing his books on his hip. God, he was amazing. “Is this why Auguste and dad left like sixty messages for me?”

“No, I swear it’s been like three and a half days, at least.” Damen responded meekly. “Aren't you mad?”

“About what, Damen?” Laurent laughed, sounded exhausted but also affectionate, as if finding his boyfriend of over two years wet from his sprinklers and covered in parts of his hedges was something he found endearing. 

“Did no one tell you?!” Damen asked, his heart, which had settled, kicked back into gear, pressing uncomfortably against his ribs. It was doing a goddamn salsa inside his chest as Laurent sat his books down on the stoop, slipping off his stylish loafers and moving to stand in front of Damen, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

“Tell me what?” Laurent scoffed. “What did you do, help an old lady cross the street? Save kittens from a tree? Kiss to many babies-”

“Your mom saw me naked.”

“What?!” Laurent screeched, tightening his lips to hold back his laugh, pressing a hand to his mouth to hide his laugh. This only made Damen panic more.

“It was going to be the best promposal ever, like I had roses and the proposal part was like, an amazing pun, and you said your parents were going to be gone and that Auguste was heading back up early to see his girlfriend so I thought, something that we would both remember…” Damen trailed off, ignoring the pink flush Laurent had acquired from holding in his giggles. “This is not funny!”

“Damen I asked if you wanted to come over that day to have sex and you told me, in no uncertain terms, that you had much more important things to do. I got mad and told my mom we’d had a fight who then said she would take the day off to take me out for ice cream,” Laurent paused, his eyes brightening as he was connecting pieces together. Damen wanted to kiss him. “That was why she was so jumpy. I knew it wasn’t Jen from HR.”

“I’m glad you find this funny! I worked for months on this, and just so you know, you having an amazing prom is so much more important than sex,” Damen had the decency to look part offended and part embarrassed. Laurent looked gleeful. “I just wanted you to feel special.”

“Oh Damen,” His laughter trickled off, the sweet little giggles fading until Laurent was flushed pink and looked good enough to eat. “I know I don’t say this enough, but you really are the sweetest boyfriend in the world. Even if you do go and try seducing my mom.”

“Laurent!”

“Is my dad next? My brother?”

“Laurent, no!”

A window was thrown open and Auguste’s pillow sailed out, hitting the pair. Laurent’s brother leaned out, hair piled on top of his head in a bun and face covered in a thick green paste.

“Don’t have sex on the lawn, what the hell is wrong with you!”


	5. Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why was she crying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just let me have a bunch of happy endings for everyone involved (except the regent he can go die).

She knew these halls.

The pale white marble was a memory of a time long past. The farther she walked the more distorted the hallways became, stretching and morphing, giving birth to shadows. From a shaded corner, an echo of her former self raced past, skirt hitched up to give the following Damianos a tantalizing glimpse of her pale thighs. Her laugh resonated in her ears as if heard from underwater.

Their young bodies faded into smoke, sinking into the stone with a final coy giggle lingering behind. A sweeping wave of cold rushed past and Kastor walked through, pulling her shadow self along, his smile a sharp and ambitious curl.

She could feel herself moving, walking away from that past. Where was her son? It was the question pressing against her breast, leaving her bereft and alone in the halls that had once seemed so full of possibilities. Where was her son? He had been gone so long from her.

The wail of an infant rang out, a hook to drag her forward like a baited fishing rod, slowly reeling her in. The door to Damianos’ chamber was open and unguarded, the curtains billowing in the late hour wind, too many to see anything clearly, the white fabric kept blowing forward to cover her face and block the view from her child who was crying. Where was her baby?

She pushed forward, for no reason other than that was all she could do. Her fingers were clumsy and fumbled in a way they hadn’t in years. She tried calling out, but all words felt like sandpaper in her mouth and nothing came out but pained whimpers.

With a final gust, the fabric cleared and she saw Damen sitting on his chaise, slowly rocking her baby softly in his massive hands.

They shared the same coloring, the same deep honey brown eyes of Damen’s father, the same wild crown of inky curls. A pang in her stomach, of an idea that would never be, a future that she’d thought about for months after Damen had been sent away.

She’d hopped the storms might have drowned the boat. She’d sometimes prayed that he would die quickly and painlessly. With the way he had looked at her, a soft gentle affection, she wished him that much. She thought about him mostly after she had shared a bed with his brother. Kastor was not a gentle lover and found the idea of taking for his own something his brother had cared for so dearly a most satisfying conquest.

They never could have lasted, was what she had told herself, comfort when she was lonely and without the comforts she had come to expect. Damen never could love someone like her.

Instead she watched as Damen looked up and caught her eye. And smiled.

It was her favorite of his smiles, the wide and boyish one, the one only she had been privy to at court. He would meet her eyes across the room and smile, wink, and wind his way over to whisper filthy words into her ear that she would spend the rest of the night making filthier. It was the only game Damen could play against her and perhaps win.

She felt herself smile back, unable to help herself.

Like a trickle of iced water down her spine, the Snake Prince walked through her with a wave of thick smoke, dressed in light blue and perfectly polished. He held a knife in his hand, carefully, like one might a glass trinket or bobble. She wanted to move forward, to say something, anything, but instead her feet remained still and her mouth fell silent.

Why was she crying?

Tears dripped down her face as Damen cooed to her child, his voice holding a deep warmth Kastor could only imitate. A deep fear bubbled up but instead of pushing her forward it only stuck her limbs together.

Laurent of Vere, her poorly crafted replacement who had done everything she couldn’t, reached the pair, standing behind Damen. His knife was held in one hand pointing inward, pricking the soft skin of Damen’s neck and sending a thin trail of blood down to stain his pure white chiton.

And like a sudden rain lifting, her voice returned.

“Damen…?” It was stilted and strange. She hadn't said his name in years and even in her dreams, the syllables sounded foreign on her tongue. The prince laughed, flighty and haute.

Damen looked up, seeing her and smiling again, soft and loving, and she felt herself crying harder, smiling back in sad remembrance. He stood, as if he might walk to her, the child held carefully in his arms. A fizzy warmth erupted in her stomach and she felt herself wanting to laugh. 

And then she started screaming as the Prince of Vere lovingly dragged the knife across Damen’s throat. His beautiful smile slipped into a contemplative frown, as if he were simply confused about the sudden development and her response to it.

Like a tree being felled, Damen tumbled forward to land sprawled at her feet and she woke sticky and exhausted in her bed.

She stood on shaky feet and walked to the window, breathing heavy and letting the cool ocean air chill her sweat-drenched skin.

“Jo?” Calista called, unwrapping herself from their bedding and stretching, poking at the love bites she had left along her stomach. “Are you still worried about the meeting with the kings?”

“No, darling,” Jokaste said, moving away from the window to the side of the bed. “It will be good for all involved, I think.”

“Good, I want to finally meet your son in person. I swear if I have to read one more poorly written note I might just walk to Marlas to teach the boy his letters myself,” Calista said, startling a laugh from Jocasta. With a soft smile she sat down, curling into the warmth of her wife.

Jokaste lay there, listening to Calista’s breathing even out as she dropped into sleep and as she moved to follow her, she took to tracing the wide arch of her wife’s lips, the dark spill of her hair and the rich earth of her skin. Perhaps, she mused, she had as much a type as Damen. She let out a cathartic sigh, shifting to press the solid warmth of Calista to her back and letting the shades of the past fade into her memory where they would remain.


	6. "A kingdom or this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I am falling behind, but fear not! I'm working on it!

Damen was so still under the glass. His breath was barely distinguishable and every gentle rise of his chest sent Laurent’s into palpitations. His lips were still pink, not the blue of a corpse, and his skin looked as warm as always. He looked as if he might just sit up, yawn like after a nap, and tease Laurent for worrying by pressing soft kisses around Laurent’s eyes. But Laurent knew better.

“Have you made your choice?” The woman asked. Laurent couldn’t bare to look away, choosing instead to trace over the glass, leaving messages for when Damen woke up. Because he would. Because he had to.

“Was there ever any choice?” Laurent asked, resigned. He’d spent weeks researching, studying, sending for scholars and wise women only for them all to say the same thing: there was no way to out trick a witch.

“Your kingdom for your love, a fair trade I think,” She asked, moving around the glass casket. She ran her fingers along the golden base, lighting the runes that had been carved there. “For the price of an answer. Which do you care for more, your people’s well-being or your own happiness?”

“My people of course,” Laurent responded absentmindedly. He would have to answer her question soon, could feel the time he’d been allowed closing.

“Of course. Your brother’s legacy then?” She laughed. “Do you more highly regard the man you have come to trust intrinsically or the faith placed upon you on the moment of your brother’s death?”

“Why do you wish to hurt us?” Laurent whispered cruelly to ignore her question and the pain it caused. His bitten-down nails traced shapes into the glass. They were bloody from where he had chewed down to the quick in frustration.

“I wish for there to be no secrets between rulers and their people,” The woman said casually. Flippantly laying herself across the case, she tapped a pointed nail on the glass above Damen’s resting face, soft in sleep. “Would you like to know how he would answer in your stead?”

“Me.” Laurent answered immediately, smiling sharply for the first time in weeks at his husband who slumbered just out of his reach. “He would pick me.”

“It does not matter, I suppose,” She stood, shaking out her skirts and leaning forward. “It is time to choose, king-ling.”

“I can not.” Laurent hissed. He could feel tears building in his eyes because he could choose, knew which he would when she finally drew the damned answer from him. 

“You will. So,” She started, grabbing his chin and turning his face towards her. “Pick you must. Worldly power for a beloved person, your exalted title for a husband returned, a kingdom,” She waved her hand to the soft-faced Damen waiting for his husband to save him. “Or _this?_ ”


	7. Fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is out of order but I don't care. I have a personal headcanon that Damen can't dress himself.

Damen was beautiful. Laurent knew it, hell, all his friends told him the same. He was well aware of his boyfriends perfectly cut cheekbones, tapered waist, and straight white teeth tucked behind wonderfully plump lips.

But for all of his features, his inability to dress himself in some style resembling human was one of his biggest shortfalls and had almost led to a break up exactly three times. Granted, there were extenuating circumstances, but the hideous Hawaiian shirt he was wearing during two of them didn’t help things.

“You can’t wear that,” Laurent hissed, redoing his bun to make sure it tilted in just the right way. He watched with half an eye as Damen looked up and at his outfit in Laurent’s full length mirror. He opened his mouth but Laurent beat him to the punch. “Gym shorts and a button down don’t equate formal, as you damn well know.”

“What would you have me wear, my love?” Damen asked, model abs jumping when he laughed.

“Armani sent over that beautiful sweater and those sinfully cut jeans. Why not that?” Laurent questioned, curling the little strands of hair framing his face while also trying to watch his boyfriend.

“It’s a dinner, not a shoot,” Damen reasoned. He relented when Laurent glared at him with a hot curling iron held in his hand threateningly. “Fine, fine, but I want to wear my nice shoes.”

“Crocs are not nice shoes!” Laurent yelled at him. “I don’t care how your feet feel, I just want one night where the waitress at a Michelin starred restaurant doesn't look at us like we stumbled in after the local bar spit us out.”

After a few minutes of shuffling and muffled curses from their walk-in closet, Damen spun around the door jam to smack a wet kiss to Laurent’s cheek. He backed away and did a little spin while humming a little tune. Laurent was feeling happy with the loose tan sweater and the jeans that hugged Damen’s ass until he caught the flash of his belt.

“Damen!” Laurent hissed, pulling up the sweater and yanking on the neon green belt. Damen seemed more interested in the rough handling than the annoyance of his boyfriend. “Neon green. Really?”

“It will match with my crocs!” He defended, smile warm and silly, gently rubbing at Laurent’s neck where he had dropped it in defeat.

Damen just pressed a soft kiss to his head, pulling Laurent’s hands away from his ass in favor of initiating a semi-waltz in their bedroom to pull a laugh from Laurent and distracting his very observant boyfriend from the small ring case he had hidden in his back pocket.


	8. Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not what I started with but where I ended. Maybe comment what you might think the character's acts might be!

Nicaise looked at the card and then up at the shoddy tents and mobile homes set up in an oblong circle around a communal eating area.

He walked forward, confidently, as if he belonged.

Laurent saw him first, slowly unwinding the python from around his throat and laying it into its cage. His husband was behind him, slicing up small cubes of meat for his lions.

Jokaste and Erasmus were finishing up their makeup for their acrobatic routine and followed the boy’s march to the animal trainers with small frowns. Jord, sword swallower extraordinaire, stopped Aimeric from pressing a kiss to his cheek and messing up his stage makeup, pointing to Nicaise. Orlant and Lazar were facing each other with their half painted clown faces and both started snickering behind their hands when Damen’s face went pale at the sight of the boy.

Ancel flicked an unlit baton in one hand, tilting his head in the direction of him, Berenger looking up from the Circus’ expense books long enough to mouth _old life_ before returning to his numbers. Nikandros moved to intervene but was stopped by a hand to his chest. Auguste watched with bated breath as Laurent moved forward to meet him.

“You said I could come to you if I ever left him,” He stated, no nonsense. “Well here I am.”

“Our trailer is a little small now but the invitation still stands. You wouldn’t happen to have any marketable skills, would you?” Laurent asked, glancing over to where the owner Makadon was watching the interaction with a wide smile. He liked sharp people like Nicaise. It was one of the reasons he had taken Laurent and Auguste in when they were on the run.

“I sing,” Nicaise huffed, seeing he had gathered an audience, the attention feeling prickly and uncomfortable instead of the usual rush of enjoyment he’d come to expect.

“Marketable,” Laurent laughed, jerking his head to the trailer to their side. The door creaked when he opened it but it was quiet inside and away from prying eyes. “Are you safe?”

“I think so,” Nicaise muttered, not sitting down with Laurent on the ratty couch instead walking into the split room kitchen to look at the hung Polaroids pinned into the plastic backsplash. In one Laurent was smiling wide with his husband, pressing a messy kiss to his cheek. Nicaise felt like he could hear Laurent’s laughter ringing in his ears.

“You know you don’t have to stay with me, you are allowed to live your life however you wish to, with or without me,” Laurent stood and moved behind him. In a rare show of affection that was becoming more and more commonplace the longer he was away from his uncle, Laurent planted his chin on Nicaise’s head.

The boy scoffed but carefully laid his hand over Laurent’s arms which wrapped around his thin shoulders.

“You know, Jokaste is taking time off soon to take care of her son. You could always train with her and her partner. You have the build for an acrobat,” Laurent thought out loud, humming in thought. “It doesn't matter. Whatever you do, it just means you have a place with us. Always will.”

“Is that why you like this shit hole so much?” The kid prodded, sneer looking plastic when Laurent knew he couldn't have been running on more than a few hours of sleep.

“Well, if you stay it will be our shit hole, so,” Laurent trailed off, too tired after that night’s show to gather enough emotion to be angry. “We all care for one another here, no one is ever left behind. That is what I like here. If you stayed, so might you.”

The two stayed tucked together in the kitchenette, looking at the slightly sun faded pictures. Laurent took note of the little empty spaces, places where new polaroids could be added. Nacise did too, it seemed, because his fingers tightened on Laurent’s hand in the way that more clearly than any words, said _yes._


	9. Deceit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I still have like a handful of drafts I have to clean up and add in the coming week because I have the planning skill of a six year old.

Theoretically, Laurent knew how honeypots worked. He knew that one had to be sexually attractive to the mark, form an attachment dependent on the length of the con, and then work to swindle the desired product from the mark in whatever way was best. In practice, Laurent found the task impossibly difficult.

Laurent knew if Auguste knew about his plan he would have broken out of jail up to tell him how needlessly complex and stupid it was but seeing as Laurent was going to seduce and then con the arresting office of his case to assure his freedom, Laurent felt his brother could wait.

It had went well, Damen found him fascinating and clever and Laurent’s dumb blonde routine wasn’t even needed to get him out of the sheedy bar and into a cab. So he pushed, inserting himself into the FBI agent’s life until slowly he was so ingrained it seemed silly to separate all parts of their life. For his brother, he said when Damianos kissed him goodnight after walking him to his safehouse. For his brother, he thought when they fell into bed together. For his brother, he whispered when Damen proudly presented him with a set of drawers in his apartment. For his brother.

Damen was sweet, vanilla both in the streets and the sheets, and eventually started leaving casefiles outside the safe in his home.

But with this trust came something unwanted.

Damen would ask his thoughts. Not in the pity way, as if humoring his boyfriend, but as if Laurent could give him an interesting point he hadn’t seen before. It was new and unexpected and sent a rush of affection he dreaded feeling. Laurent knew in the scheme of things, falling for the person you were conning was kind of a big no-no.

Five months since his brother’s arrest and a similar amount of time spent becoming the perfect version of himself to appeal to Damianos. One that was startlingly close to himself sans the deceit and lies about his profession-- Laurent was not nor could never be a temp for an ad agency-- but kept his sharp tongue and semi-demanding nature.

The closer the trial came the more Laurent thought not of the upcoming date but of when he would inevitably be forced to leave afterwards.

It was in the conman rulebook, don’t carry anything you can’t bare to lose, but Laurent had found many things he’d rather not part with. He had a signed novel Damen had gotten him for their first month anniversary. Laurent hadn’t thought he would be the kind of man who celebrated that but it turned out he found it decently romantic. They’d had sex on the kitchen counter and crushed the cake Damen had bought for the occasion. He had a set of cufflinks that Damen had engraved with their initials. Fuck, Laurent couldn’t imagine leaving without the Malevich Laurent told Damen was a reproduction but was actually lifted from a passing exhibition and replaced by one of Auguste’s forgeries. No one would think to look for stolen art in the house of the director of the local Art Crimes Division of the FBI, Laurent reasoned, ignoring the soft voice in the back of his head which whispered about how it had matched their couch and the paint color Laurent chose for the living room.

It was easy to pretend at times, that he was just Lauren Carlisle, avid reader and temp. To come home and fall into Damen’s arms and forget his plan and his old life. To pretend he was a simple man with simple pleasures like semi-expensive wines and cheese from Costco and not $60 million paintings and repelling from buildings. He found himself pretending a lot.

He thought of that now, watching Damen flip through the files. He knew his name was somewhere in there, under known associates, but he waited with bated breath for Damen to do something to break the tension he had inadvertently made with his internalized struggle.

“What do you think about this DeVere case?” Like a wave breaking over a shore or the sun shining from behind a bank of clouds, Laurent wanted to cry, scream, laugh hysterically. Instead he continued washing the dishes from their dinner.

“That was the man who stole a...painting?” Laurent hesitated a beat and Damen sighed, taking a swig of his beer and standing, moving to cling to Laurent’s back like a bur.

“A set of statues,” Damen said. “I was the arresting officer. He was nonviolent and the prosecutor wants to trump up the charges. Apparently the curator is a good friend of the mayor who is quite insistent for a life in prison seeing as the statues were never recovered.

“So what do you have him on?” Laurent knew the base details, hell he’d helped plan the first outline of the heist, but the actual details were unknown to him seeing as his skills had not been needed. Auguste was suppose to be able to have charmed his way out. He had not.

“Forgery of federal documents. We know he stole the statues but without them, the case is just highly cucramstatial.” Damen admitted, face tight in thought. Laurent liked to trace his fingers over those lines sometimes but tonight he instead submerged his hands into the suds to avoid the temptation.

“You have to let him go then, yeah?” Laurent laughed. It came out tense. He forced himself to relax.

“A reduced sentence, at least,” Damen granted, kissing a line down his throat. Laurent felt no attraction that night, only the heavy weight of guilt and worry churning in his gut. Damen felt it and smiled ruely, pressing a single kiss to Laurent’s neck before taking a step back. “Not tonight, that’s all right. How about a movie instead?”

Damn him! Laurent spun around and pulled him back by the elastic of his sweatpants, shoving his hands down Damen’s pants with the finesse of a teenage boy. Luckily, the agent seemed to find everything Laurent did sexy, and a rushed handjob seemed to count.

Damen huffed in laughter, his breath sending shivers down Laurent’s arm and giving him a reason to forget that within the week this apartment would be half empty. That their collectibles, pictures, and signs of cohabitation would vanish. That this little haven he had built for himself would come crumbling down just as he inevitably knew it would when he purposely spilled his drink in Damen’s lap months ago in that grimy bar.

So for tonight he held Damen in his arms while Damen laughed, swapping kisses and pretending as if he wouldn’t be shattering both their hearts only seven days later.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on tumbr @ whimper-soldier


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